Christopher without warning.
Dennis had relied on his memories. On the one factor that made Will Rubens human. With Christopher, he’d gifted his brother part of his heart.
Chapter Two
Will tossed the keys to the SUV onto the kitchen counter. Beyond the window above the sink, a clear moon cut an icy hole in the starry night.
What was he going to do about the kid—hell, the woman? How could she have brought the boy so far north without checking with him first? And Dennis…what the hell was he thinking? Had been thinking…?
God, his brother. For two long minutes Will leaned his hands on the counter and hung his head, battling the tears, knowing grief and guilt would lie on his soul for years. Dennis, his lone sibling, the one person in the world who had taken a seventeen-year-old Will under his wing when their mother died. The last remaining part of Will’s blood, the only part he had loved beyond words. Wasn’t that why he’d offered the child when Dennis explained his sterility?
I love you, man, Will had told his brother the moment the notion entered his mind. Let me do this for you, okay?
And so they had. Amidst the fighting between Elke and her mother and grandmother. In the end, Elke had won, had conceived, but Dennis had taken her away from Alaska forever.
God almighty, why hadn’t he been more communicative? Will thought for the millionth time. Called more often? Invited his brother back for some fishing or trail biking? Things they’d done in younger years.
Dammit, these days with e-mail and instant messaging the excuses were just that. Excuses.
And now it was too late. Too late for Will and Dennis—but worst of all, too late for the kid.
His phone blinked another message. He hit Play. “Hey Will,” Josh’s youthful voice exclaimed. “Thought you’d be home by now. Well…um…I had tons of fun tonight. Even though you yell and scream a lot and pitch like a girl.” Will’s mouth twitched. “Juuust kiddin’. Thanks, Will. See ya Saturday.”
Saturday. Three days from now Will would be standing in the dugout with Josh’s Little League team, coaching and handing out last-minute instructions and pep talks.
Sixty minutes, that’s all Will had given Josh tonight.
Guilt, the damn gut clincher.
The kid hadn’t said a word, but Will knew disappointment. Josh had hoped for more than a few practice pitches and hits in Starlight Park. He’d counted on Will taking him for a soda at Pete’s Burgers. Instead Will opted to drop the boy off early at his mother’s house. Which was another problem. Valerie had met him at the door with her hungry eyes and sweet, begging smile.
For her sake, he wished he felt the same.
The Stowe woman whipped through his mind. No sweetness there, except for Christopher. That bun of red hair was a dead ringer for her bristly spine and rigid rules. And those eyes. Green as a jalapeño pepper with twice the bite.
He figured her to be in her late thirties. Her eyes were no longer young or innocent. But then, living amidst Central American poverty with merciless sun beating down on that pale, freckled skin, he supposed she’d earned every one of those creases.
No, she wasn’t Valerie. Valerie of the tall, slim body she worked incessantly to keep toned and trim. But neither was he interested in Valerie, much to Josh’s dismay. Will knew the kid wished for a connection between the adults. Trouble was, he wasn’t drawn to neediness.
Tonight she had asked him inside and, as always, he’d reneged. Being a big bro to Josh did not mean being a big date for Valerie.
Not that he didn’t date. He did. But mixing his volunteer work with desperate women wasn’t part of the picture. Besides, he’d tried that last year with Valerie and it hadn’t worked—not for him.
He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it onto a chair. Before he fell over, he needed a shower. Josh. Old Harlan’s musty cabin clung to his T-shirt.
God, had it only been twelve hours since he’d flown up the river?
He’d risen at dawn every day this week, flying his Jet Ranger loaded with sports fishermen and hikers into the Wrangell or Chugach mountains and chartering glacier tours. Later, during the long daylight hours of summer, he’d add fighting forest fires to the list.
Today, he’d flown up the Susitna River—Big Su to the locals—to bring old Harlan supplies and make sure the old man had survived another winter. After landing the bird in a space wide as a thumbprint a hundred yards from Harlan’s cabin, Will had spent the day with his friend chopping wood and digging a new hole for an outhouse. Tonight, his muscles whined at the slightest movement.
Sleep. His eyelids suddenly sagged. Bushed and filled with a bellyfull of sorrow, he stripped off his clothes and turned on the shower. Give him his bed and let him die for a week.
He was there when the phone rang again.
“Mr. Rubens, it’s Savanna Stowe.”
As if he’d need a reminder with that voice. He pushed up on the pillow. “Yeah?”
“Sorry to bother you so late, but I wonder if you’d like to have breakfast with us here at the lodge. My treat, of course.”
He remembered her mouth. Fine and full. He imagined it holding a smile for his answer. “All right. What time?”
“Would eight o’clock work for you?”
Not eight, but eight o’clock. She was nothing like the women in Alaska or any he’d known elsewhere. “Sure. See you then.”
“Thank you.”
He hung up before she said good-night.
Good-night was personal and he wanted her and the boy on a plane back to the Outside tomorrow.
The minute he strode into the restaurant, she saw him. A man of sizable height and broad shoulders, his tarnished-gold hair askew from the wind, his cheeks ruddy from the crisp morning air. A brown suede jacket soft with creases and scuffs hung open to a sweater mirroring the Caribbean blue of his eyes. One day, she realized with a jolt, Christopher would replicate this man. Already, the long bone structure was in place, the dimpled cheeks.
“Sorry I’m late,” Rubens said, slipping into the chair across the table from Savanna.
“No need to apologize. It’s only seven minutes past.”
He shot her a look, then slipped off the expensive jacket and hung it over the back of his chair. His gaze flicked to Christopher tracing a finger along an Alaskan river on the creased map he’d dug from his red and yellow knapsack.
“Chris,” she said. “Remember your Uncle Will? He came to see us last night.”
“Yeah.” The boy remained focused on the charted page.
“Uncle Will is going to eat breakfast with us.”
“You okay with this, boy?” Will asked.
This.
